Fear Itself
by KCS
Summary: Written for Challenge 018, creepy or scary Halloweenesque fic, at LiveJournal's watsons woes.  John is accustomed to being kidnapped by now, but he never expected a criminal to adopt Mycroft's method of doing so, to ensure he comes along without a fight.
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: Fear Itself  
><strong>Characters<strong>: John, Sherlock, misc. unmentioned (ACD and BBC canon spoilers in second part but unnamed)  
><strong>Rating<strong>: K+  
><strong>Word Count:<strong> (this bit) 3022  
><strong>Warnings<strong>: general creepiness, mild snark, shameless h/c and fluff, poetic license with universe-blending...my usual, in other words.  
><strong>Summary<strong>: John is accustomed to being kidnapped at this point in his London residence, though he never expected someone else to adopt Mycroft's signature abductions in order to lure him in without a fight.  
><strong>AN:** Written for the _Challenge 018_ at **watsons_woes**, my first challenge entry in I think well over a year. I set as my goal, to write a fic which fulfilled the requirements of creepiness/scariness without resorting to supernatural phenomena - and without physically laying a finger on any of the main characters.

Also, kudos to any history geeks who know where the title's taken from and can extrapolate from that the probable direction I'm going with this. :)

* * *

><p>It's by far the worst day he's had in quite a while; and he's served in Afghanistan, been strapped into a bomb vest, been unintentionally thrown into night terrors by the idiot he lives with, and found a severed finger in the soup last week.<p>

The day itself hasn't been entirely rubbish. The weather dawned crisp but sunny, there's been not a peep on the Moriarty front for over a week, Sherlock put the milk back into the refrigerator last night (a detail, but an important one, God knows he's tried multiple times to drill into the detective's thick skull…the one atop his spine, not the one on the mantel), the surgery was busy but not disgustingly so, he had a decent enough luncheon (a rarity which he had long since learnt to appreciate), and Sarah has promised to meet him next weekend for a brief day trip to the country. All in all, a successful enough day, if what Sherlock would call a _study in boring domesticity_.

And then the unmarked black car pulls up beside him as he walks home from the surgery in the glowing dusk of late October afternoon.

Mycroft has always had a crap sense of timing, but he knows by now the futility of resisting abduction. So John only sighs and, rolling his eyes at the nearest security camera when one of Mr. British Government's unnamed officials (he calls this one Lurch in his head, because he is vaguely creepy!butlerish looking) looms out to open the back door for him, gets into the car. He's a bit disappointed to see that Mycroft's version of a Bond girl who's perfectly capable of killing him in three different ways with nothing more than a smartphone isn't in the car waiting for him, but he can't expect to have everything his own way – very few things, actually, when it comes to the most dangerous man in London.

But it's the fact that he can smell cigarette smoke (Anthea hates the smell, he found out on the one occasion they idled alongside a crowded corner, and she has Mycroft's permission to sack anyone who tries it in his vehicles) on the car's upholstery the moment he sits down that blares a panic alarm in his senses.

His fingers are on the now-locked door an instant before the dart imbeds itself in his neck, and he doesn't have time to do more than feebly yank on the tarnished handle before he blacks out.

-oo-

He isn't expecting to wake unaccompanied, unrestrained, and unharmed, but apparently he's all three, because he's staring up at a sunset-streaked sky and free from pain other than a gnawing ache in his bad shoulder from the cold and the general feeling of malaise which follows heavy sedation.

What the point of that aborted abduction was, his brain's still too fuzzy to figure out even if he were capable of deducing like Sherlock I-know-everything-unless-I've-deleted-it Holmes. He blinks several times, until the buildings around him coalesce into singularity instead of blurred duality, and huffs out an experimental breath; possibly the cold (and something wet and lumpy under his left ear; soggy leaves, from initial exploration) which has seeped through his clothing is only numbing some hidden injury.

No, he is apparently unharmed. That in itself is strange enough to be worrisome, and he wastes no time in hauling himself to his feet, hands braced against the brick of some unidentified building. One hand moves to his neck, and he yelps at how cold his fingers are, gloveless. He can't even feel a mark where the dart hit him; and were it not for the nausea curling deep in his stomach and the general feeling of lethargy which he's fighting at the moment he might think it was just a bizarre dream brought on by too much one-a.m.-Chinese dinner and Sherlock playing _Flight of the Bumblebee _at the top of his voice. Top of his violin. Or…He vaguely realises he isn't making much sense, but has other things to worry about that are more important than his inability to produce intelligent idiom.

But if the previous conjecture were the case he'd be awake by now, because he always wakes up when he gets cold enough or his stomach is upset enough; he's had enough nightmares that this has become habit more than reaction. Therefore he's just been drugged with substances unknown by persons unknown, and left in locations unknown.

Fantastic. It's no wonder he can't get a decent life insurance policy.

His head clears a bit with some deep breathing, and with the arrival of oxygen comes the knowledge that this is a bit beyond Not Good, that no one randomly kidnaps citizens off the streets without a reason and then leaves them places without a reason. He fumbles for his mobile, which is (miraculously) still in his jacket pocket, along with his wallet and all its contents including identification and loose change. Curiouser and curiouser.

He accidentally dials his voicemail before his half-numb fingers can abort the call and press the 2 instead of 1 on his speed dial. Sherlock's phone rings out, and he is told by too-cheerful computerization that the man's voicemail box is apparently full. This, John knows, is because while Sherlock deletes from his brain anything he deems unworthy of attention he has a bad habit of not extending that cleanout to his mobile or email inbox. Sherlock, in short, is an e-packrat.

He swears a little at the dial tone before ending the call. He pulls up his messages, and there are seventeen new ones. One from Sarah, a clarification about a prescription he'd written for a hypochondriacal woman earlier in the day (his handwriting is as bad as any doctor's), and sixteen from Sherlock.

The first eleven of those sixteen are, simply, BORED.

He deletes them and opens #13.

Message: 13/17  
>(12)  
>JOHNJOHNJOHNJOHNJOHNJOHN<br>JOHNJOHNJOHNJOHNJOHNJOHN  
>JONHJOHNJOHNJOHNJO<br>(2/2)  
>HNJOHNJOHNJOHNJOHNJOHNNNNN<br>NNNNNNNNNN

Despite the nausea which flares up as his eyes try to focus on the small screen, he laughs hoarsely, and deletes the message.

Message: 14/17  
>Metatarsal stuck in kitchen disposal.<p>

He does not want to know.

Message: 15/17  
>Out of drain cleaner. When are you coming home?<p>

Message: 16/17  
>Bring drain cleaner. Also biscuits.<p>

Message: 17/17  
>John txt me plumber's phone #.<p>

_Why is his life so weird?_ His mind wails hysterically, as he does a Sherlock and firmly _deletes _all thoughts of what his flatmate has gotten up to during the…he checks the time on the phone…more than twelve hours since he left this morning. Nine hours at the surgery, one and a half walking time, and he's been out cold for apparently almost two.

That's a long time to be unconscious and drugged, especially in October evening weather and when he's wearing his shabbiest coat and shoes.

He puffs out a breath of frustrated crystals, and re-dials.

Sherlock, unsurprisingly, again does not answer. Probably the phone is stuck in the drain as well; he would not be surprised. John's stomach is settling now, though he still feels sick and off his game, and as he does not appear to have sustained any conditions which would prevent his moving he believes that getting to a main road and figuring out where in the name of sense and sensibility he is would be prudent before he calls anyone else.

Five minutes' walk (he's moving slowly, chilled through and still a bit unsteady on his feet) brings him out of what was a tenement district into something resembling a road through slightly less-dilapidated residences, though it doesn't take more than thirty seconds for him to realize he has absolutely no idea where he is.

And the GPS feature on his phone is mysteriously not working. Nor is his internet browser.

A chill seeps down his neck and spine that has nothing to do with the bracing wind which whips about him, scattering orange and ochre leaves in its wake.

His mobile beeps.

New Message: 1/1  
>Have you lost Oyster card or something? Three hours, John? A record for dawdling, even for you.<p>

He chokes on what threatens to be a half-sobbed giggle of pure nerves and hastily presses the call button. It rings one and a half times.

_"John?"_

"Answer your _bloody _phone once in a while, will you?" he fairly snarls, while eyeing with wariness an unmarked black cab which saunters past in the gloom.

_"I was busy," _is the lofty reply.

"Stopping up the disposal unit?"

_"Where are you?" _The change of subject has all the subtlety of a brick to the head, but John ignores it in favor of more important things.

"I have no idea. Can you track my phone?"

There is a short, significant pause, in which John knows every possibility is being rapidly churned through that magnificent brain. Then there is the sound of hurried typing, and Sherlock's muttered talking to himself filters through the background noise.

Somewhere in the distance, a dog howls. He shivers.

_"John."_ Something's wrong, he can tell even without Sherlock's intuitive abilities._ "How did you get there?"_

"Looked like one of Mycroft's specialty kidnappings, turned out it wasn't," he answers, clipped and void of extraneous details which Sherlock doesn't need until and unless he asks for them. "I've been drugged with something, don't think it's serious; no residual symptoms other than nausea and disorientation. Woke up alone, unharmed, mobile and identification still in my pocket."

There is the sound of a crash, and Sherlock's frustrated swearing overlaying it.

"Sherlock." He is calm, because he really has no other option at the moment. "What is it, what's the matter."

_"The…entire mobile network's website is apparently down." _He can hear suspicion tingeing the frustration.

"Meaning, you can't access the phone trace feature."

_"Meaning I can't access the phone trace feature," _is the echoed agreement.

"The GPS and internet browser aren't working on my mobile, either, Sherlock," he says quietly. "And there's nothing else wrong with the phone."

_"Start walking,"_ Sherlock orders, and he can hear the tapping of keys. _"It should be simple enough to locate a street sign; from there I will of course be able to direct you. Find a point of reference, John, and call me back when you have."_

He sighs, lowering the disconnected phone, and picks a street at random (the sun has set, now, but he vaguely remembers the glow fading to his left and so sets off in that general northwesterly direction. His knees still feel shaky but lead-heavy at the same time, and this is the worst possible time for his leg to start playing up, but of course play up it does, and his progress is slower than he'd like.

Plus it is absolutely freezing. He would much prefer to keep his extremities, thank you.

Ten minutes later, he still has not seen a street sign, and has only passed through street after alley after mews after street of houses, low to mid-income residential neighborhoods, and the occasional row of shops and businesses which could be any of a thousand streets in London.

Or anywhere else, since he was out for two hours. He might not even be _in _London anymore, though he suspects he still is just judging by the number of CCTV cameras which dot the streets despite the lack of other visual markers.

The leg twinges as he crosses an uneven pavement, and he grits his teeth, persevering on.

Another twenty minutes later, he pauses for breath on what appears to be the edge of the housing district, the streets merging seamlessly into rows of flats over top of small businesses. Street lamps are fewer in number and farther apart than he'd prefer, given the circumstances, and outside the odd loiterer lingering by barred windows he can see no other signs of life.

He sighs, breath puffing frostily into the air, and decides to head to his right as that street is better lit than the one he had previously chosen. Also, there looks to be a main intersection in that direction. Much as he is wary of getting into a cab this time of night (plus he has only five pounds on him), it is at least an option to consider.

His phone rings out with the Imperial March from _Star Wars_, shrill and bone-jarring, and he regrets his idiocy in letting Sherlock assign his own ring tone to John's phone.

_"Why have you not called me back?" _Sherlock's lack of greeting shows him more clearly than words would have that something is Not Good about this (besides the obvious).

"Because I haven't seen any street signs, Sherlock!" he snaps, setting off at a brisk pace. His well-worn shoes scuffle along the broken pavement, kicking up leaves, and the smell of half-rotted vegetation curls into his nostrils, unpleasantly reviving his nausea.

_"That is patently impossible, John," _his flatmate lectures severely.

"Obviously it isn't," he grunts, stumbling over something in the dark between two street lights. "I can't even see the city skyline, Sherlock. I've no idea where I am, somewhere within two hours' driving distance of Central London."

A decrepit stone church looms out of the night, gothic and macabre, leaning headstones dotted like teeth along the lip of the ground.

He turns the corner of a hedgerow and nearly jumps out of his skin, adrenaline shooting the burning ice of instinctual terror through his veins like a drug. He does not scream. Though he does sort of choke on a yell of reactive fright. A very masculine, very soldierly yell.

Oh, who is he kidding, he sounded like a ten-year-old girl.

_"John!"_

"F-fine," he manages, giggling in the aftermath.

_"What –"_

"Passing an old church yard," he explains, raking a shaking hand across his mouth and then clammy forehead.

_"Superstitious?" _Incredulous, and sardonic. Idiot probably has never been frightened in his life, he's too careless of life itself to be.

"No, just a Doctor Who fan," he answers. He casts a look over his shoulder and then, shuddering, hastens his pace.

Obviously clueless silence. _"John?"_

"There's a bloody stone angel guarding the entrance to the church yard," he explains, feeling like an idiot now that he's not turned the corner straight into the outstretched hands of what had to be The Scariest Creature of his childhood telly. His hands and brow are clammy now in addition to being cold, perspiration from nerves indicating the adrenaline rush was seeping away.

He isn't even halfway to what looks to be a main intersection when he freezes, lips pressed tightly together.

_"John?"_

Keeping the phone pressed to his right ear because his left hand has decided to start tremoring again, he swings round to look behind him.

_"John? John, talk to me," _Sherlock is demanding imperiously into his eardrum.

"Sherlock," he says slowly, eyes flickering to each shadow. His chin is freezing, partly numb, so he thinks he can be forgiven the unsteadiness of how the name sounds when it's spoken.

_"What is it?" _

"The CCTV cameras on this street."

_"What about them?"_

"They all just…switched off." He swallows, looks again behind him, as his skin crawls. "No red lights means they're not recording, yeah?"

Sherlock is silent for a significant moment.

_"Move. I don't care where you go, just move – get to a populated area, a street with people, vehicles, anything – just go, John!"_ Sherlock's bubbling panic is definitely. Not. Helping. He sets off at a brisk trot, almost a half-jog, kicking up a storm of leaves in his wake. _"Stay in the light of the street lamps."_

"Not stupid, Sherlock," he pants through gritted teeth, because really power-walking on a bad leg is not pleasant, and besides that he still has no idea what he's been drugged with; it could be slow-acting poison for all he knows and increased circulation could be spreading it more quickly. Charming thought. "Still no idea where I am?"

_"How can I have, if I can't trace the phone! Talk to me, tell me what you see. Anything."_

"Church. Graveyard. Weeping angel out front. Street lamps father apart than they are on Baker Street and they look older, does that help?"

_"Keep talking."_

"Heading toward what looks like a well-lit intersection, but it's several streets down," he continues, breath coming in short, measured puffs of ice crystals. "Passing a…Lebanese restaurant," he reads off the sign as he trots past, "antique shoppe…no idea what that says, it's in Chinese…cash point…red phone box…alley, rubbish bins…launderette…"

_"Bus stop? Bicycle rental?"_

"If I'd seen one I'd be there waiting for the next bus or I'd have a map and know where I was, Sherlock," he snaps shortly, because the man should know by now that he's not an idiot in its true sense of the word (not Sherlock-sense, that's another standard of measurement entirely).

He's only gotten another hundred yards before he jerks to a halt, his heart thudding wildly from exertion and the sudden chill which freezes him in his tracks.

_"John,"_ Sherlock snaps, almost waspishly, and he can hear the frantic tap-tapping of laptop keys in the background. _"Why've you stopped?"_

"The…street light behind me just went out." He is quite proud of the fact that he doesn't sound nearly as freaked out as he feels. His heart's pounding out his pulse in his ears, throbbing a steady beat of chill and terror that war had never been able to produce. He isn't afraid of things he can see, put a name to, defend himself against, or at least see coming. But this? The second lamp behind him goes out, plunging the street behind him into a yawning chasm of darkness. Maybe he's watched too many late-night movies on the telly, but even in real life he can't see this as anything but Very. Very. Bad.

_"Keep moving."_ Sherlock's voice is an anchor, and he tethers his nerve to it like the lifeline it is. _"Keep moving, John."_

He starts forward again. The light ahead of him flickers – he hears the static fizzle of faulty circuitry – and then goes out.

His shaky exhalation tells Sherlock everything.

_"John, run."_

He runs.


	2. Chapter 2

**Title**: Fear Itself (2/3)  
><strong>Characters<strong>: John, Sherlock, misc. unmentioned (ACD and BBC canon spoilers in second part)  
><strong>Rating<strong>: K+  
><strong>Word Count:<strong> (this bit) 4321  
><strong>Warnings<strong>: general creepiness, mild snark, shameless h/c and fluff, poetic license with universe-blending...my usual, in other words.  
><strong>Summary<strong>: John is accustomed to being kidnapped at this point in his London residence, though he never expected someone else to adopt Mycroft's signature abductions in order to lure him in without a fight.  
><strong>AN:** Written for the _Challenge 018_ at **watsons_woes**, my first challenge entry in I think well over a year. I set as my goal, to write a fic which fulfilled the requirements of creepiness/scariness without resorting to supernatural phenomena - and without physically laying a finger on any of the main characters. Now in three parts; let's hope it doesn't mutate further. o_O

* * *

><p>It's surreal, actually, and if he were safe at home behind two locked doors and Sherlock he'd be laughing at himself – because it's straight out of a third-rate horror flick. But it's not a film, and he really is running down a deserted street in an unknown part of town, close to midnight, and the street lamps are going out one by one just behind him with a rhythmic <em>click-pop<em> that is far too regulated to be coincidence or mere electrical failure, and his heart is pounding so loudly he can count his pulse in his eardrums, and he can't tell if there are really footsteps behind him or if that's just his admittedly overworking imagination, and there's actually a _dog _howling somewhere close by, for goodness' sake.

To top it all off, Sherlock is prattling in his ear, and even if the man were making sense John wouldn't be able to tell, since it's impossible to run and properly hold a phone to the side of one's head. Finally he gives up and stuffs the mobile in his jacket pocket, still connected, and sprints for the main road several squares ahead of him. Sherlock's voice trails downward off on a bellowed _I know you have these rooms bugged, Mycroft, so get up off your infernally lazy late-night-snacking_– and if John wasn't out of breath by this point he'd laugh manically at the idea that he's more upset about Sherlock alienating his brother unnecessarily than surprised that Mycroft has the sitting room of 221B under at least audio surveillance.

The lamp behind him sizzles and then something shatters with a loud pop. Not a gunshot (he hopes), but it might as well have been, for all the good it did his nerves. Cold adrenaline now fuels his aching legs, limp forgotten in the flight for life, and he sprints the last few meters to the road he has been aiming toward this entire time.

It is deserted, bereft even of vehicles, but given the events of the last half-hour he is not overly surprised. He does, however, snatch a leaflet from where it lies forgotten, trapped under a plant-pot outside a closed Chinese restaurant, and as he yanks the phone back to his ear he scans it to make sure the name matches that of the restaurant before him.

"Hackford Road," he gasps breathlessly, cutting Sherlock off in the middle of a rant on the inefficacy of the London electrical systems and Mycroft's security forces.

He can almost hear Sherlock snap to attention. _"What?"_

"I'm on…Hackford Road…somewhere," he answers, doubled over almost at the waist in a futile attempt to catch his breath. He shuffles into the reassuring light of a street lamp and takes stock of his surroundings; not the nicest of areas, but most of London is safe enough if a person is smart about his behavior. He's walked through far worse neighbourhoods than this. He wouldn't really be that worried, as he can take care of himself and has before now in the course of investigations, were it not for the circumstances.

_"How on earth did you end up all the way in Lambeth?"_

He sighs. "I wouldn't _know_, Sherlock, now would I? And where, exactly, would Hackford Road be in Lambeth?"

_"Two streets west of Brixton Road, which is parallel to you. Multiple bus stops and definitely better populated this time of night. Head that direction. I'm hanging up to call Mycroft and have him pinpoint the disruption in the CCTV feeds. Two minutes, John. Keep moving and watch your back."_

The line goes dead before he can acknowledge the order, and he pockets the phone as well as his watch (far too fancy for his taste, a gift from Sherlock after he'd dropped John's other on in acid, though the thoughtfulness was negated a bit by the fact that his flatmate had charged the watch to one of Mycroft's credit cards), not willing to draw any more attention to himself as a target than he has to. One look back down the street from which he's come, and he refuses to shiver at the sight of an entirely dark road. He has not, apparently, been followed into the light of civilization, but that does not mean he is safe. Nor, conversely, does it mean there was actually anyone there in the first place, though it is a bit much to be coincidence, and he still has no idea why he was abducted and then left unharmed. It is more than a bit unnerving, and he believes he can be forgiven his understandable trepidation and – because only a fool would refuse to admit it – his fear.

Fingers on his wrist briefly to see if his heart is still racing and how badly, and then he sets off down the cross street, staying out of the shadows, and hustling as quickly as he can on still drug-heavy legs. He crosses Cranworth Gardens (now there are street signs a-plenty, he notes in exasperation, and wonders if the masterminds behind this had actually gone so far as to remove them in the location he'd been left) and moves on down the shabby side street toward Brixton Road, which means far more to Sherlock I-have-a-miniaturized-_London-A-to-Z_-saved-to-my-mental-hard-drive Holmes than it does to him.

It's not even the promised one hundred twenty seconds before his phone blares in his pocket.

"What did he have to say?" he asks, and is pleased that his voice has steadied now.

_"I couldn't get through,"_is the sobering reply.

"You mean the line was busy, or…?"

_"I mean I didn't even get that automated tone telling me the number could not be completed as dialed. Just white noise, John."_

He swallows, and watches the shifting shadows a bit more closely. The CCTV cameras are still off all around him, dark and silent and foreboding by virtue of the missing red lights. He's almost to Brixton Road; he can hear the traffic of cabs and late-night buses, the signs of life and of safety in numbers.

Sherlock's tone is tense, clipped in that way that indicates he is intent upon a problem. Or worried. Or both, given the circumstances. _"Someone obviously doesn't want me being able to contact anyone,"_ is what John hears next, and his heart sinks as the detective continues. _"I got the same thing when I tried to call Lestrade."_

"Texts?"

_"Won't go through; they aren't even being delivered."_

"Well, that's lovely," he mumbles, side-stepping an empty crisp packet as it blows past in a gust of crackling wind. "Try Mrs. Hudson's landline in the flat?"

_"Dead. I'm coming to find you, John,"_ Sherlock says, and he hears the tinny noise of the phone being jostled from hand to hand; the man is putting his coat on. _"Just keep moving east to Brixton Road, then head north, and tell me as soon as you see an intersection so I have a location for the cabbie. As soon as you see one, John, are you listening."_

"Yes, yes, give us a few," he snaps, though he thinks he can be forgiven his irritation under the circumstances. Something scuttles into an alley just behind him. Probably a cat; too small to be dangerous, or so he hopes.

A thought occurs to him, and he bites his lower lip, debating whether or not to mention it.

_"I know,"_ Sherlock articulates suddenly through the phone, and he curses his flatmate's ability to read his mind even without being able to look at him. _"Whoever is doing this apparently doesn't mind that we can contact each other; they simply do not want us to be able to call in reinforcements. It certainly would have been easier to simply ensure the destruction of your mobile, rather than selectively disabling features of it."_

He sighs. This is getting a bit old; they might as well be _married_ if every criminal in the city thinks he is the best way to get to Sherlock Holmes. At least in that case he'd be legally entitled to Sherlock's not-inconsiderable family fortune and wouldn't feel guilty about shelling out five pounds fifteen on chocolate biscuits every Friday. Not that he would get to _eat_said biscuits unless he hid them better than the last box he stuffed under the cling-wrapped toes in the crisper, but –

The definitely-not-hysterical-thanks-very-much part of his mind informs him that he is rather behaving like the wife, and he snaps back into reality with a jolt.

"So, I'm probably bait to lure you out into a trap, since they obviously wanted me to call you."

_"Most likely, yes."_

"Maybe you should stay in Baker Street then, Sherlock," he begins, hoping by his calm tone to make the man stop and think for a bit, but it isn't any use and he knew it probably wouldn't be. And, if he's honest with himself, he's a bit selfishly glad that Sherlock isn't going to leave him to face this on his own.

_"Out of the question. Hold on, there's a cab."_ Loud scuffling, a door slams, and then Sherlock's back on the line. _"Brixton, fast as you can. John?"_

"Haven't gone anywhere," he mutters dryly. Something clangs behind him, and his heart shoots up into his throat before thudding back into place. He's nearly to Brixton Road now, unless he's been heading the wrong way this entire time.

_"Stay on the line with me, John. What was that?"_

"Something shifting in a bin, I think. Listen, Sherlock; if whoever it is wanted me dead they'd have done it by now, God knows they've had plenty of opportunity. They want _you_, and you're practically just handing yourself over to them gift-wrapped."

_"You would rather I let you walk home all the way from Lambeth when we both know someone is following you, then?"_

"It's better than walking into an ambush, Sherlock. What if that cab you just got into was planted there?"

_"Improbable; I waited for the third one. When on a case, never take the first or second cab which trawls past, John; I have told you this multiple times. Do try to pay attention."_

He doesn't answer.

Déjà vu is unpleasant even at the best of times, and this is definitely one of the worst. His therapist would be proud of the fact that he doesn't panic, though his mouth does go a bit dry and he can feel the beginnings of uncontrollable shaking start in his hands and knees.

A red laser-dot has suddenly appeared on his chest.

_"John?"_

He breathes in, one-two-three-four, and holds it, one-two-three-four, then lets it out, counting to eight. And again, and again, and each time forces the panic to recede.

Focus.

The laser sight isn't moving; a steady hand, then – a professional sniper, he suspected one with military experience. Probably the same one they'd never found after the incident at the pool. He'd suspected that there was only one sniper there; for one thing, the multiple laser sights after Moriarty had re-entered were flickering wildly and bespoke of a different hand than the steady one which had kept upon him during the negotiations. He'd watched the laser sight travel over him, flicking from detonator to his heart, and then still stay on his exposed arm when he'd tackled Moriarty from behind; it had been a professional, and a steady one. But when the multiple sights had focused upon both him and Sherlock when Jim had re-entered the pool, they had been flickering wildly. For another thing, the steady hand had kept the laser on him until after he'd jumped Moriarty – and then the dot had _disappeared _to re-appear on Sherlock's head. Had there been more than one sniper, the second should have just sighted as well and there would have been two target lights showing. Mycroft's men had taken out one man armed with a silent rifle and a multi-laser-sighted device, but Sherlock had upon meeting the minion deduced immediately that he was no more than a patsy; the real sniper, the real marksman and Moriarty's right-hand man, had vanished as quickly and easily as smoke dissipating in a high wind.

John reflects with a flicker of gallows humor that once again he's met Sherlock's archenemies before the man himself had.

_"JOHN, ANSWER ME," _Sherlock is bellowing in his ear, loud enough to be heard down the street even when not on speakerphone.

"Still here," he says, exhaling shakily. The laser is steady on his chest, holding just over his heart, barely wavering even in the half-darkness. He can't tell where it's coming from, and he's willing to wager that he wouldn't be able to even if it were daytime. It has him pinned in the middle of a dimly-lit side street, only scant yards from relative safety on a more populated road. He can hear his freedom, but can't move to reach it. Even if he did not get shot the moment he makes a break for it, he won't endanger innocent lives (there has been enough innocent death by association with Sherlock Holmes to last him a lifetime). That means this sniper, whoever he is, knows that – and he's starting to have a sick gut feeling that unless the criminal underworld has decided to start copy-catting the Napoleon of Crime, as Sherlock had called him once, then this scenario is one which is now all too familiar.

And it fits; he's been played and played with tonight, as opposed to being harmed or killed when he easily could have been. Jim Moriarty's specialty is mental torture, not physical, and the whole fiasco reverberates with the telltale sound of his particular artistic flair.

He could be wrong, it could just be coincidence, but the steady pinpoint of light over his heart, just where his shoulder was initially wounded in Afghanistan, says otherwise. Whoever this is knows him too well, knows Sherlock too well, and that knowledge is going to be the weakness that threatens to eventually take them both down if it is not compensated for.

_"What is it,"_ Sherlock demands. _"John, this is no time for your ridiculous penchant for melodrama – answer me!"_

The dot flicks up to the phone in his hand and holds steady on it for a long instant, before moving back down to his chest. The message is clear.

"Sherlock…I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," he manages, pleased that the tremor which has started in his left hand hasn't spread to his voice beyond a slight flicker in the last word.

It's enough, though, to alert London's most observant man that there's something he's not telling. But he'll see these people, whoever they are, in a hell of their own making before he'll make Sherlock listen to another person die over a mobile phone.

_"John? John, what –"_

He ends the call and thumbs the volume over to vibrate, lowering the phone slowly toward his pocket; he's no desire to be shot because whoever this is thinks he's got his gun on him. Then he remembers that the sniper is in league with his abductors, and so whoever he is already knows his prey is unarmed. The phone is buzzing with Sherlock's number on the ID before it even hits the top of his pocket, but he ignores it.

"Well?" he queries the darkness, not knowing if the sniper is even close enough to hear him or if he can read lips through night-goggles. "Bit of a stand-off, isn't it?"

There's not a soul in sight all up and down the street, which is both disappointing (he can't get lost in a crowd) and relieving (no one will get hurt for his sake). The laser doesn't even wink at him, just stays placidly in the upper left of his jacket. Obviously, keeping onward toward relative safety on a populated road is not in the plans of his abductors.

He's not as good at working things out as Sherlock is, but he has nothing better (or smarter) to do at the moment than think, and so think he does, with surprising calmness. He's obviously a lure for Sherlock, that much is evident; if whoever his abductors were – probably Moriarty's henchmen – wanted to kill or harm him, he'd have been dead ten minutes after he was taken. He wonders wryly for a moment if he shouldn't get a tracking device implanted, as often as he seems to get kidnapped for Sherlock's sake. But if all they wanted was Sherlock, why the whole business with the lights and leaving him in the middle of nowhere? Why not keep him, and why bother following him with scare tactics?

More importantly, why has the sniper not just picked him off, if John has now done his bit in giving away his basic location to Sherlock? His being alive isn't going to have any effect on a trap springing closed now. Not that he's ungrateful, mind, but he just doesn't understand. You don't leave loose ends open if you're a consulting criminal mastermind, so why hasn't he been eliminated from the picture after performing what he no doubt was intended to perform?

Why is he still alive? If that rifle has a silencer then no one will even hear the soft pop of a gunshot; he'll be dead within seconds, and with the street deserted and his body half-hidden in shadow there will be no danger of the killer being discovered for hours yet.

Possibly, just possibly, he reasons, wishing he had Sherlock's gift for rapid inductive logic, then they don't want to kill him just yet. He tests the theory warily by backing up slowly, until he is pressed against the low stone wall which separates the pavement from the front gardens of the slightly dilapidated flats behind him.

The reassurance of solid stone at his legs and lower back calms his nerve a bit, accentuated by the fact that the sniper does not fire. The dot moves with him, settling back on his left shoulder (shot there a second time by rifle, and he'll probably never have even partial mobility with the arm again, permanent damage to the nerves, and as he is primarily left-handed that is definitely not a desirable scenario), but the sniper doesn't fire. The thought that he isn't meant to die like this, in this horrid street in such an ignoble manner, is oddly reassuring, as reassuring as it can be when he knows his heart is centered in a sniper's scope.

He risks a slow, unthreatening glance behind him at the stone wall. It is just below waist level, and runs down the remaining length of the street until it ends at what must be Brixton Road, if Sherlock's knowledge of the city is correct.

Wait.

Brixton Road.

He is not Sherlock Holmes, does not have a map of London in his head down to street signs and road constructions, but that means something, and he should know what. If these people wanted him to be in danger, they'd have dropped him off in a more dangerous part of the city. While London is a fairly safe city, there are various locations which decent citizens avoid in the hours of the night, and multiple streets which are known as teenage gang centrals – even the bravest of men is not foolish enough to walk them without good reason. But they dropped him in Lambeth, which is not necessarily an upscale part of town but is by no means the red-light district. (1)

Why.

Brixton Road. Why Brixton.

His phone hasn't stopped vibrating this entire time, but he doesn't think he wants to chance being shot if he reaches for his pocket so he ignores it, trying in his own feeble way to puzzle it out, until he has an indication of what to do. The sniper hasn't budged a fraction of an inch, the dot still lingering on his chest like a too-cheerful glowing reminder of his own fragile mortality. Sherlock is on his way, though there's no guarantee he'll ever even find him with nothing more than a street name to go on and no way to trace his phone. It's not like Sherlock can call for help either, from the police or anyone else, if his phone's not working other than to contact John. He absently wonders if the pink phone Moriarty gave Sherlock is locked to Moriarty's number alone, or if Sherlock could use it to call for help – it would give the game away since it's assuredly tapped, but at least it would get word out. But no doubt Sherlock's already thought of that.

Wait.

The pink phone. The phone from _A Study in Pink_.

Brixton Road.

_Lauriston__ Gardens _is a group of dilapidated flats just off Brixton Road. (2)

If this is how Sherlock feels when his chains of deduction all suddenly connect, it's no wonder the man becomes no less than spastic during those fragile moments just beforehand, shouting for complete silence so that his brain can catch up with his intuition and connect the dots before he goes mad. John much prefers being plain boring idiot John Watson, thanks very much, because the sudden heady rush of _rightness_, the knowledge that he's made the correct deduction, even if it's not a very hard one to make, is almost enough to make him forget about the imminent danger he's in.

There has to be a connection. What, he has no idea; he's not Sherlock. But the connection must be there, and if Sherlock is so focused on getting to him and has no knowledge of Moriarty's sniper, then his friend may not have drawn that connection together yet. John has to warn him, and probably needs to get to Lauriston Gardens. It's too much to be coincidence, the fact that he's been followed and practically guided this direction by an unseen and disquieting hand.

Besides that, he's been standing here like a helpless damsel in distress for too long as it is. He flicks a glance down at his chest and the winking red light that rests there, without moving his head, and then glances down both sides of the street. It's a risk, but one that has a fairly good chance of succeeding. No sniper, no matter how good, can hit a moving target with entire accuracy at night, even with the aid of night-goggles, and besides that even the fastest sniper in the world can't adjust a scope in less than three or four seconds (that's enough); and John is himself an army man and a crack shot. He knows how to move and how to hide, to afford the least chance of being hit.

It's a gamble, but then that gambling thrill has always been his one real addiction. Besides, if he stays here, eventually one of two things will happen. One, the sniper will get tired of waiting in the cold and will just pick him off out of boredom and desire to go have a hot cuppa. Or two, Sherlock will find him and walk right into the line of fire – if he hasn't been diverted to a well-laid trap already.

Well, then.

He leans against the low stone wall, affecting weariness and shifting his weight to his right leg to further give the impression that his adrenaline's fading and he's close to giving out. His right hand, because that one's stronger, grips the stonework at the top of the low wall, and his whole body tenses as the sniper's sight shifts a fraction to adjust for the new angle. Still, he does not fire, and John takes that to mean the man's under orders to not shoot unless he absolutely has to, if at all. He looks around; stone wall and tiny thatches of garden or brick, trees, rows of flats. Ah, fire escape three flats down. He'll have to jump pretty high to pull it down, but with a running start it should be doable.

It's a calculated risk. He smiles darkly as his phone buzzes insistently again in his pocket, and then in one quick motion flips himself over the wall behind him, rolls for a moment in the darkness of shadow behind the wall, and then starts running – this time for his life, in a race against a sniper's night vision.

He doesn't see the light quietly wink out behind him, or the shadow slip away into the alley opposite.

* * *

><p>(1) I am American, and so am not native to London; but I did some research regarding the safety of the city itself. I know that it's supposed to be the safest city in Europe, and after visiting it more than once I would probably agree with that; I felt safer walking the streets of London, even at night, than I do walking the public shopping malls in my home town.<p>

But there are a few districts, according to the general consensus I could find, that you don't really want to be caught in after dark. Had this been the ACDverse Holmes, I would simply have dropped Watson in Whitechapel or Soho, but times and locations change, and so I settled on this after doing my research and decided to generalize for the most part.

(2) According to widely-accepted ACD canon, Lauriston Gardens was off the Brixton Road; just google LG and you'll easily find the sites which say so. However, in the BBC show, Lestrade tells them that the body was found in Brixton. When I Googlemap Brixton, it brings up the region in question which I mention here (including Hackford Road), but it has a Lambeth postal address. As I'm not a native and don't know precisely how all the divisions work, that's why I refer to it as Lambeth even though the show calls it Brixton.

Anyone else confused? :| Anyway, just wanted to let you know I did research this, I promise.


	3. Chapter 3

**Title**: Fear Itself (3/3)  
><strong>Characters<strong>: John, Sherlock, misc. unmentioned (ACD and BBC canon in-jokes, speculation regarding post-Season One miscellanea)  
><strong>Rating<strong>: K+  
><strong>Word Count:<strong> (this bit) 4016  
><strong>Warnings<strong>: general creepiness, mild snark, shameless h/c and fluff, poetic license with universe-blending...my usual, in other words.  
><strong>Summary<strong>: John is accustomed to being kidnapped at this point in his London residence, though he never expected someone else to adopt Mycroft's signature abductions in order to lure him in without a fight.  
><strong>AN:** Written for the _Challenge 018_ at **watsons_woes**, my first challenge entry in I think well over a year. I set as my goal, to write a fic which fulfilled the requirements of creepiness/scariness without resorting to supernatural phenomena - and without physically laying a finger on any of the main characters.

* * *

><p><em>Sherlock would be so proud<em>, is the most idiotic thought which flitters through his mind as he jumps the distance between two adjoining flats without a twinge for the four-story drop into (because it would be _into_, not _onto_, at that distance, his medical mind observes with grim humor) cracked pavement beneath his feet. Unfortunately, even his admittedly impressive histrionics in escape have not deterred his stalker, for while he can hear no sounds of pursuit his instincts have always served him well, and they are screaming that he is no closer to being out of danger than he was on the street below.

He finally takes shelter in the ebony shadows cast by a massive, ancient chimney system. Shrugging out of his coat (he's so cold now, a bit more isn't really going to matter), he tosses it over his head in front of him and then and only then, under safety of black melting into black on the darkness of a rooftop, unlocks his phone.

_41 Missed Calls_

He snorts a nerve-ridden laugh, and moves to the messages. There is only one.

New Message (1/1)  
>If still alive when I find you<br>am going to kill you John

He fires off a reply with a speed that would make Sherlock's fingers envious, and in moments has his answer in the form of a vibrating mobile.

He answers it mid-ring, in time to hear Sherlock promise the cab driver a twenty-pound note if he will ignore the traffic signals.

Knowing that the cabbie will have enough sense to not do so on fear of losing his license or being killed by a bus, he refrains from telling Sherlock off for his lack of concern for people who would be involved in the traffic accidents he would cause. He has no time to speak, anyway, for the man is shouting into the phone loud enough that John is certain the sniper will hear. Keeping the coat over his phone arm, he shifts about so that he can watch for approaching danger but still keep the blueish LED glow from being seen.

_"You are a dead man, John Watson! Where are you?" _Sherlock demands.

"Roof," he murmurs, quiet as he can. "Never quite made it to Brixton Road." He on purpose slightly lisps the sibilant in _Brixton_, knowing it is the most easily-overhead sound in whispered language.

_"Why?"_ The detective's tone is curt, angry, and the unsaid _you can't even do this one simple thing, John? _annoys him.

"Sniper," he snaps back curtly, for Sherlock has no call to be irritated with him. "Sound familiar?"

There is chilly silence on the line for a moment. _"…You took a ridiculously foolish risk and ran, then."_

"Brilliant deduction, that one," he agrees. He freezes, eyes flickering across the street to the opposite rooftop, as the sound of glass crunching trickles in from somewhere in his vicinity.

_"I am still five minutes away at least, John."_ He can fairly hear the nervous energy vibrating from the man, and even though he's still admittedly petrified that knowledge is somewhat comforting. _"My grandmother drives faster than this gentleman apparently can!"_

John hears an indignant _Oi _from some distance away, and laughs silently at the idiocy that is his life.

Said laugh then chokes out a violent death in his throat.

Sherlock picks up on it instantly, of course. _"What's wrong."_

"Besides the obvious?" he murmurs, trying to slow his racing heart. At this rate his hair will be entirely grey before he returns to Baker Street.

_"Answer me."_

"The CCTV camera posted at the corner of this building," he whispers.

_"What about it? You said they were all off."_

"Well this one just came back _on_," he snaps nervously, rubbing a hand over his mouth. "And it's…turning towards me." Like a horrible visual effect of a poorly-rendered film, the camera swivels dramatically and slooooowly around…around…and then fixes its tiny glowing eye on his hiding place. The still-not-hysterical-thanks-very-much part of his brain registers that his inner five-year-old is now whining _Sherlooooock, it's looking at me, make it stop!_

"Sherlock, I think it can see me!"

_"Move, John!"_

He makes a low dive out of his hiding place – no time to pick up his discarded coat, and barely enough to shove the phone in his pocket rather than let it go skittering across the rooftop – and if that wasn't a silenced gunshot that just ricocheted off the chimney behind him he'd take back every nasty thing Sherlock had ever said about Anderson.

Sweat chilling in the near-midnight air making him shiver violently (good, not hypothermic yet, that's a plus), he makes a dash for the edge of the roof facing the next flat – and skids to a halt when that cursed laser sight suddenly flickers into being on the wall of the alcove next to him, blinking and bouncing in the darkness as its owner tries to get a bead on him. Without slacking pace he swerves and dashes toward the back of the roof, moving in a non-straight line and ducking low, hoping that the darkness will afford him enough cover to save his life.

He reaches the edge of the roof and teeters for a moment, looking down the four stories to the filthy pavement far below, and debates the wisdom of his venture.

Then he sees the flicker of red on his sleeve and, taking a deep breath, jumps to the balcony one story below.

He's not an idiot, and knows enough to tuck and roll so as to not break his legs when he lands, and yet the impact jars him to his very bones, which feel all the more brittle due to extreme cold and stress and the fact that, ex-soldier and blogger of Sherlock Holmes or no, he's pretty much at this point on his last nerve for the night. He is _done _with this, thank you, and no one can blame him for starting to lose said last nerve at this point in events.

He wastes no time in trying to get his breath back, because if he doesn't move then it probably won't matter if he can breathe or not, and instead scoots into the deserted flat (flimsy lock, one good kick to the outer door handle snaps it like a twig), and dashes inside, through the dingy room and out to the inner stairs. Down and down and down, until his leg is aching with an entirely non-psychosomatic pain and his shoulder beats a steady accompaniment of pain and cold to the sound of his pounding feet, and down he pelts in the darkness until he lets himself out the front door, immediately vaulting the railings into the shadows by the building.

He's just in time to flee the sniper's sight, as it dances mockingly over the door and pavement, following him.

At this point, he's beyond pride both personal and military, and would admit to anyone that he is, quite simply, scared half to death. While even ten minutes ago he might have been capable of fighting back or at least holding his own, at this point he has been drugged with an unknown substance, kidnapped and left in no man's land, and is now chilled through, without his coat, and has been running (literally) for his life from a madman with a night-scope and sniper rifle, someone who can also command CCTV cameras at will.

He thinks he can be forgiven the fact that he has no idea now what to do but run, run like his life depends on it – because it does – sprint at the top of his speed along uneven pavement until his side is hurting and he's shaking with adrenaline and he's no idea where to hide where he won't be found, all the time watching half over one shoulder for the red dot which will tell him he's not fast enough and that the sniper is on his tail, taking aim between his shoulder blades, and he can practically feel the tiny dot of heat burning through his shirt and why hasn't the sniper fired yet he's been dead in sight for who knows how long and he doesn't think he can run much farther without having a heart attack –

He dodges around a set of phone boxes and slams directly into something – someone – on the other side. An entirely undignified yell of terror escapes his chattering teeth, and he lashes out with the honed instinct of a soldier fighting for his life.

The _ooorf _of pain as elbow and then fist connect with side and stomach (not hard enough, his mind supplies woefully) is vaguely familiar, he thinks as he stumbles back against the phone box, dazed from the impact.

Then strong hands are on his arms, gripping tightly but not brutally, and a hand leaves one to latch onto his chin, tilting his face toward the light of the nearest street-lamp.

He blinks into worried – worried? Will wonders never cease – steel-blue eyes and a mop of rampaging dark hair, and for a second daydreams about how nice it would be to just faint with euphoric relief right about now.

That would just fuel public rumors which he _really _doesn't need, however, and so he settles for his legs buckling under him (since he really can't control that, he just rolls with it), and a half-gasped exclamation of relief murmured into that infernally dramatic coat, which comes out sounding far too much like a sob than any self-respecting man should make.

"All right, you're all right," Sherlock is saying fuzzily from over his head, one hand still on his arm and the other moving up to cover his exposed neck briefly. "John, you're fine. You're _fine_."

He's being propped against the glass and glossy red of the phone box, and he doesn't realize he's breathing far too quickly until Sherlock's hands are on his face, forcing his attention into that mesmerizing gaze just as he had on the night John found all that graffiti and the detective was afraid he wouldn't remember it all. "You're all right," Sherlock repeats, as if it's the only thing he is really sure of, and John believes him – always does, despite his better judgment half the time.

"Aren't you still on the other side of the river?" he mumbles stupidly. Wasn't it just two minutes ago that his flatmate was still five minutes away? Surely even Sherlock Holmes isn't capable of teleporting.

A dark eyebrow quirks at him. "The cab was far too slow in this traffic. I got out and ran for it," Sherlock says, shrugging. His breath, rapid and controlled due to his exertion, puffs into the air, crystallizing. John stares at the smallish cloud in fascination, brain still sluggishly catching up to the words. "Got a few odd looks from late-night theatre-goers, I can tell you, but ultimately – success."

John feels a giggle bubble up and he swallows it, because the portion of his brain which is still wired correctly realizes if he starts he may just not be able to stop again. Sherlock bends down, eyes on level with his, and he resists the urge to squirm under the man's worried look. He can't repress the shiver which results from the touch of warm fingers on his half-frozen cheek, however, and Sherlock's eyes darken.

"You told me your possessions were intact," the detective snaps severely.

John looks up at him muzzily. "What?"

"They took your _coat_, and you didn't see fit to mention that to me as a pertinent detail?"

"Oh," he realizes, blinking. "No, 's up on the roof. Took it off to cover up the light of the phone when I called you. Sherlock. Sherlock, what are you…doing…?"

His flatmate – friend, because anyone doing this is definitely part of the _Friends _status – has already shrugged out of his coat and is in the process of tucking John into it.

"Going to bloody freeze to death, s-stupid git," he mumbles, though his body is screaming _stop arguing with him and take it you idiot. _What was that saying about looking a gift coat in the mouth? No, that was wrong…

"And you are more than halfway there already, judging from the fact that I'd not trust your gun aim right now to hit the side of the Houses of Parliament," Sherlock returns calmly, and before he can justify that with an indignant response his freezing hands are folded between soft gloves and held up to illustrate. They _are _shaking rather badly, he notes with detached interest.

He vaguely thinks that Sherlock should carry a portable shock blanket; God knows they would find uses for it most of the time because they are out late at night so often and usually it's wet and somewhat disgusting wherever they are and Sherlock has them crouching in a skip or something equally squishy and a bit of comfort afterwards or even just a fleecy cuddle in a cab would make things much better than freezing half to death just because blankets don't come in _travel size_, okay.

Sherlock is looking at him oddly, and quirks a tender sort of smile which lets him know that he…said that out loud.

Lovely. As if he hasn't embarrassed himself enough for one evening.

"Don't mind me," he adds as an afterthought, because heaven only knows what he will come up with next in this adrenal let-down that comes of pure survival.

Sherlock laughs softly, and lets go of his trembling hands to button the coat all the way up to his chin. John believes he looks rather like a hobbit playing dress-up (or an extremely well-dressed scarecrow), as it almost drags the ground and the sleeves fall over his hands, but it is warm and soft and far more expensive than anything he's ever had on and why on earth did Sherlock need someone to pay half the rent if he can afford a coat like this anyway?

"Needs are not necessarily monetary, John," he hears in his ear before Sherlock is pushing him into the relative safety of the space between the two phone boxes.

He did it again. He mentally zips his mouth closed and takes a deep breath to clear his shock-addled head.

"Sniper was tracking me down the street," he whispers into Sherlock's scarf, because the man refuses to move out of his personal space, planted between him and whatever danger lurks (except that these phone boxes are made of glass and snipers can shoot equally well through glass, but it's the thought that counts and he feels stupidly warm and fuzzy inside at the idea).

"No signs of him now, though," Sherlock murmurs over his shoulder, tense as a coiled spring. "No signs of anyone, actually."

"Did you receive any message from Moriarty?" he asks, and he's pleased to note that he can actually start to think again. His heart rate is falling, and he feels much less terrified of the unknown – a natural effect Sherlock has on everyone he meets, no matter how rude he is. People instinctively know that he sees what they don't and knows what to do when they don't; John loves it, and just that knowledge relaxes him.

"Not a peep, which does not tend to lend credence to the idea that he is the instigator behind tonight's activities," Sherlock replies, eyebrows knitted. "Were he behind this, I would have expected to receive some summons to Lauriston Gardens, along with a typically cryptic and melodramatic cliché about 'where it all began' and so on."

"And your cabbie probably would have been another serial killer," John mutters darkly.

"Precisely. The whole business, snipers and all, smacks of Moriarty's artistic flair, but he is not one to sit silently by when he could be receiving recognition for his work." Sherlock's voice is, for the first time, John can tell, uncertain. "Something does not fit here, John."

A car approaches, sleek and dark, license plates obscured and windows tinted (drug dealer, his brain supplies unhelpfully, and he resists the urge to ask Sherlock if they are friends of his, because that would be a bit Not Good since he's wearing the man's precious _coat_). It purrs to an idling halt in front of them, parking illegally along the street without a care.

John squeaks as he is fairly squashed further into his hiding place by six feet two inches of overprotective consulting detective.

He feels more than sees the tension bleed from his flatmate's stiff figure when a familiar click of heels taps onto the pavement, followed by five feet six inches of gorgeous legs and Blackberry. Mycroft's personal assistant glances up from her phone, unperturbed by the area and time of night. John wouldn't be surprised if her suiting separates were part Kevlar.

"I'm to take you home," she says, and John is scrambling into the heated back seat (blissss) before Sherlock can even voice a token protest.

-oo-

There is a package waiting for them when they return. Plain parcel, wrapped in plain paper, and labeled with a typed address label and no return address.

Sherlock insists upon making certain it is not a bomb, soon immersed in a dozen tests of the outer wrappings before he even touches it, and John decides if it is a bomb he is at least going to die warmed and dry, and so he goes and has a scalding hot shower and wraps himself up in the warmest pajamas and fluffiest bathrobe he can find – a horribly furry green monstrosity, a gift from Harry last Christmas – before returning to the lounge.

He decides a hot toddy ranks higher than unidentified packages and whatever Sherlock is using to melt – melt? – the adhesive tape off the parcel, and so sets about to fix himself a hot drink with added sedative properties. He makes a double portion, sets one on the table beside Sherlock, and then curls up into the opposite chair, slippered feet tucked up under him, and waits.

Sherlock has by this point got the package open, apparently satisfied that its contents are not going to blow them to kingdom come or produce unpleasant smells and surprises (like that pair of mismatched severed ears which Lestrade had brought round from Croydon last month, now _that _was ghastly).

"Drink," he reminds the man fondly, for Sherlock has low blood pressure anyway and tonight's outerwear donation could not have helped.

He watches with fascination as his friend drains the cup in one swallow, apparently above such trivialities as burning one's tongue, and opens the package. He extracts a letter – one sheet of paper folded twice over – and a small cylindrical item which rolls across the table toward John.

He picks up the silver cylinder, and stares at it.

It's a pocket laser pointer. He presses the button, and a suddenly-tremored hand drops it back on the table when a far too familiar red light winks into existence on the kitchen wall.

Sherlock is white to the lips as he reads the letter, and passes it across the table when he is finished. He stares at the wall, hands steepled against his thin lips, seeing everything and nothing. John looks worriedly at him, and then glances down at the letter. It has no heading, greeting, or signature, and needs none of them.

_A lesson, brother mine, for against all odds I do not wish to see you or Dr. Watson in an early grave:_

_If I can orchestrate events such as those tonight so very easily, how much easier do you think it will be for your real archenemy? One foolish underestimation is understandable; two will most likely cost you both your lives._

_A storm is coming, Sherlock. If you do not prepare, you will not weather it, either of you._

John looks up, and meets a sober gaze. Sherlock's eyes are bleak, full of hatred for the man responsible for tonight's escapade and also for the reason behind the somewhat drastic lesson.

"He's right, you know," he says quietly. "It was too easy, and there's no excuse for that kind of carelessness. We know better, Sherlock."

"There is no excuse for Mycroft's infernal meddling," Sherlock snaps, slamming a hand flat-palmed down on the scarred table. "He has overstepped his bounds this time, John. I will not tolerate it."

"But if it had been Moriarty, there's nothing we could have done," John presses, because he can see that, perhaps for the first time since the aborted attempt at the pool, Sherlock seems to have realized that this is not a grand game. If one night of terror has accomplished that, then it is more than weeks of remonstrating from John himself have done, and he is grateful.

That isn't going to stop him from _clocking _Mycroft as hard as he can next time he meets the man, however.

Sherlock's lips twitching show him the detective has divined his intentions. "You have my full blessing," the man says dryly.

"Don't need it, but it may make me less likely to hold back," he snorts, taking a warming sip.

"He is correct, though," Sherlock muses, arms folded wearily on the table. He leans over them, hunched into himself. "This cannot continue indefinitely."

"Do you think we should leave London for a bit?" John asks hesitantly. He does not say _Taking me with you is not an option_, and Sherlock does not bother to deny it – they both know that this is as personal for John now as it is for Sherlock, and the detective's separation from him is not going to negate Moriarty's interest in the doctor. They are in this together now, and they will either sink or swim together.

"No. Moriarty's network extends to the Continent and beyond, and while we are closing down each cell even as we speak, there is no guarantee of our safety in any country under British or European rule. We are safer here, in the eye of the storm."

"But when that storm breaks?"

Sherlock does not answer, only shoves the chair back and paces a tense, twitching line to the sink and around the kitchen, returning to the table after a moment. Running a slim hand through his hair, he sighs, and shifts uncomfortably. "I regret dragging you into this, John," he finally says, almost sadly, and it as if the entire weight of the world drags at his voice.

"I don't recall you dragging so much as chivvying me to keep up," John replies dryly, half into his cup. He eyes his friend over the chipped rim, and sees the vulnerability the man is trying so hard – too hard – to hide. The cup clinks back into the saucer, and he looks up. "And if me getting scared half to death one night is going to be enough of a reality check to save our lives the next time around, I think it's rather worth it, don't you?"

"As usual, John, you entirely miss the obvious," Sherlock says loftily, though the tension fades a little from his face, melting like snow on a spring wind. He putters into the lounge and retrieves his violin from its case, obviously intent upon wailing the rest of the night away. Creative stress management, and John can't complain really since the method of choice could certainly be worse (and louder. And messier).

"Oh, and what's that then?" he asks, yawning behind one hand as the night's stress begins to take effect.

Sherlock pauses, dark head still poked around the edge of the door frame to his bedroom. "You were not the only one tonight scared half to death," he says quietly, and closes the door before John can say _goodnight_, or _thank you for finding me_, or _you're_ _an idiot but there's nowhere else I'd rather be but behind you in this_, or anything else he wants to say but probably never will.

There's no need, really, because anything he has to say has already crossed Sherlock's mind.

And, of course, his answer has already crossed John's.


End file.
